Page 20 of Power Moves
I yank it up and step away to answer. ‘Hey Boss, what’s up?’
‘Camilla, these talking points make no sense.’
‘Oh, what? Hold on.’ I pull the phone away from my ear and make a silent crying face. ‘Argh, guys, I’m sorry, I might have to go. My boss is already starting to worry.’
‘But you just got here!’ moans Jessie.
‘I know, but I’ll see you tonight at Maxy’s birthday dinner.’ Our plans have been locked in for months: barbeque at Dad’s, Coles mud cake, birthday punches, general family banter. I’ve been looking forward to it for ages.
I stand and give Jessie a quick, hard hug then give the same to Remi. ‘I’m so sorry, Rem. I’ll text you. We need to catch up properly.’
My best friend waves me off with a knowing smile. ‘Hustlers gonna hustle,’ she calls as I clamp my phone back on my ear and quickly dart to the counter.
Using some exaggerated makeshift sign language, I manage to buy a jam bun from the disgruntled cafe attendant as I try to calm a panicky Boss.
‘Yes, they’re only getting four hundred thousand dollars … No, I think that’s a perfectly reasonable amount for a beachside suburb … Yes, it’s a multipurpose gym … Yes, futsal is a real sport … No, it’s not in the Olympics … Yes, Europeans might get offended if you call it indoor soccer.’
I wave goodbye to the girls as I walk down to the school, counselling Boss about the morning’s plans as I go. By the time I walk through the school gates, he sounds much less agitated. He even cracks a joke about the polls being as useful as actual poles (of the fence variety). I manage to curb the urge to facepalm and smile instead—not because it’s a good joke but because if Boss is happy, I can be happy.
I nibble on my jam bun as I scan the school’s cobbled entrance, assessing the best location for the lectern. Lilac Beach Public is one of those schools where Lamborghini SUVs are often spotted in the parents’ car park. The quadrangle is dotted with hundred-year-old Moreton Bay fig trees that are surrounded by custom-made bench seats. The original schoolhouse is picturesque sandstone, and rumour has it the annual Trash ’n’ Treasure stall at the school fete is a thrifter’s paradise(lots of vintage YSL). I’m wondering which manicured grassy area will give us the best lighting when I spot a hulking figure crossing the road. Thankfully, this time it’s fully clothed.
‘Millsy.’ It waves.
‘Archibald,’ I reply in my fake-sweet voice.
‘You’ve got wet hair,’ comments Archie.
‘That’s because I wash.’ I hope he realises this is an indirect attack on his hygiene levels, which admittedly seem pretty normal, but years of sibling mockery have taught me that bodily cleanliness is prime ground for a cheap insult.
‘I went for a swim,’ Archie says.
I purse my lips. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Brekkie?’ he asks, pointing at my paper bag.
‘You want some?’ I ask, proffering it to him.
He peers inside. ‘Are you hoping I’ll spill the jam on my shirt?’
I stay silent. I’m not comfortable with telling straight-out lies, and the truth is, yes, now that he’s mentioned it, I’d love it if he dripped raspberry sludge all over his chest.
When he doesn’t take the bun, I shrug and slip the paper bag into my handbag.
Overhead there are hordes of bats screeching around, which is really dampening the beachside vibe I was hoping for. I really don’t want them to shit on Boss during the press conference.
‘You’re early,’ I remark to Archie, slightly annoyed by the fact he’s already here and therefore getting in the way of my bat-removal quest.
‘You’re early,’ he replies.
‘I’m working.’
‘I’mworking.’
‘Millsy is a legend,’ I say.
Archie raises his eyebrow. Oh okay, whoops, he was not doing the copying game. My bad.
‘I thought you were copying me,’ I explain in a rush. ‘I thought I’d say “Millsy is a legend” so you had to say it too.’
